The Big Eight – One

‘Five On a Tower’

 

‘We don’t use that word.’

We all turned to look at Mason, whose face was now bright red. He apologised and we turned back to Rudolf.

‘We don’t use that word anymore. Now, you people are supposed to come up with ideas – let’s hear them.’

There was some coughing, but mostly silence. I scratched my chin to seem deep in thought. Mason kept saying ‘Hmm’. My friend Baldwin exhaled very loudly to prove that he was thinking as well – perhaps more than us. I clawed at my chin with a little more vigour to keep up. Rudolf shot me a look. After a while, someone I didn’t know put their hand up. He was young, about nineteen. He looked like a girl. Rudolf nodded at him and he cleared his throat.

‘Well, if we don’t use that word, what word do we use?’

Rudolf rooted around in the corner of his left eye for a moment. He cocked his head in thought – so you see we all had our methods – before consulting a brown folder on the table.

‘The word is “reboot” Sammy.’

So an androgynous name, now I think about it. He might have been a woman for all I knew. We all gave the thing more thought. Baldwin raised his hand. Rudolf gave him the nod.

‘I’ve been reading Hardy, you know? And I think we could do some of his novels.’

Rudolf asked for examples.

‘Mayor of Casterbridge, Far From the Madding Crowd.’

Rudolf asked what was so damn special about Thomas Hardy. Baldwin got quite excited.

‘Well you see Sir – they all take place in the same fictionalised universe! A kind of fictional part of Britain. And there’s crossover like…well, the plots don’t mix but the places do.’

Rudolf’s eyes widened. Sammy added quickly,

‘They did just make a ‘Far From the Madding Crowd’ film over at Fox.’

Rudolf started writing down things, which meant we were on to something.

‘Well, we’ll have to buy the rights to Hardy’s novels.’

I raised my hand, and Rudolf nodded.

‘Well – they’re in Public Domain, so we wouldn’t have to pay anything really.’

Now Rudolf really came alive, he started to underline things on his pad with such intensity that the paper tore a little. Baldwin picked up his idea where he’d left it:

‘Now, we’d have to reboot the Hardy universe. But just think, we could have Angel St Claire turn up in the background of Henchard and Farfrae arguing in Casterbridge. Or we could have Swithin St Cleeve bump into Amby Seedling.’

Rudolf made a sour face.

‘Amby Seedling? What kind of a name is that?’

Baldwin admitted that Hardy’s names left a little to be desired. Rudolf continued to underline and we all smiled at one-another.

‘Now, could Amby…what was it?’

‘Seedling’ I said hastily.

Rudolf nodded.

‘Could Amby Seedling be a dwarf? Or, not a dwarf, but a hobbit creature?’

Now we all grimaced at one-another. Sammy was young enough to be foolish enough to tell the truth.

‘The Hardy Universe is not a mythical one, Sir.’

Rudolf’s hands shook as he removed his glasses.

‘What the hell is it then? Baldwin! What the hell is it then?’

Baldwin stood up, ready to defend himself.

‘It’s mostly bucolic drama Sir!’

Rudolf screamed.

‘Bucolic drama! Who the fuck wants to see that?’

Mason came to Baldwin’s defence.

‘It’s literary Sir!’

Rudolf threw his notepad at Mason with some gusto.

‘Screw ‘literary’ Mason! I want action scenes!’

Baldwin grabbed a script from his bag.

‘I’ve written a draft script already.’

We all took a sharp breath in. None of us had known that this Hardy Universe deal had been so important to Baldwin. Rudolf grabbed the script.

‘What’s it about?’

Baldwin snatched the script back.

‘It’s probably not ready yet…It’s about two characters: Lucetta Templeman and Hezekiah Bile…’

Rudolf slapped him across the mouth. He spoke slowly.

‘Hezekiah Bile. How dare you spend time on rubbish like this! How dare you! I am putting an official black stamp on this Hardy Universe deal. Now – are there any other ideas?’

There was a little more silence. I raised my hand. Rudolf gestured toward me.

‘I just watched Lawrence of Arabia. I think it might be time to reboot the Arabian universe.’

Rudolf clapped his hands.

‘Now we’re talking!’

 

To Be Continued

 

An Abstraction

An Abstraction

 

 

Were a tawdry cat, (I mention in abstraction),

To escape its home for satisfaction,

And come across a mean old gang,

Bankers and Lawyers, that kind of gang,

 

(Well I did say it was an abstraction),

But back to the banking, judicial faction:

If our tawdry cat were to mow them down,

They’d take that cat to a river to drown,

 

Who would take it? That I don’t know,

But it would be taken, and they would all go,

Which is funny – isn’t it? You see cats don’t know bankers or anything of that sort,

They might have heard us mention them after Madoff had been caught,

 

But if, (and this is all speculation),

This cat and another, perhaps a relation,

Came across a troupe of poor,

And beat them silly, beat them sore,

 

The front page of our Daily Mail,

(No, even in abstraction the paper wouldn’t halt or hail (but to Hitler or an Oxford Fire-sale)

They would say – isn’t it awfully ironic?

We always thought that for those poor there was no tonic,

 

 

And they’d call that cat Winston and stuff its mouth with a stove pipe,

And the cat would call meetings, but not for the ‘Dark or Chinky type’

They’d catch the cat out drinking, already mostly pissed,

And they’d report that it was affable, a cat you’d gladly kiss

 

And he’d probably be elected, that moggy on the spin,

He’d be voted in, in Burnley, and he’d screw them from within,

‘He’s got our best interests at heart’, the electorate would happily announce,

And they’d fake a smile while the checks he wrote, one by one would each one bounce,

 

And after Burnley had gone up in flames,

(The Abstraction emphasises the randomness of names),

The charred embers of the voters would say,

‘I hope he’s Prime-Minister of GREAT Britain some day’

 

Paul Horsley

An Impromptu Impression

Late last night, I got caught in one of those YouTube rabbit-holes, where you end up clicking aimlessly at the ‘suggested video’s’, each video leading to another similar one. It was a long tangent, and I ended up at Allen Ginsberg reading his poem ‘America’ over the top of Tom Waits’s song ‘Closing Time’. A lot of apostrophes today. It was fantastic as Ginsberg always is – here’s the video in question: America. Anyway, as I said it was late and I was tired but a little inspired and so, with my hands held aloft in acknowledgment of greatness, I put on a bit of Jazz and wrote a poem in the way I thought Ginsberg might have done. Minus the LSD, but appreciate that this was due to a lack of availability – don’t call me a prude. Now don’t let this get out of hand and assume I’m saying that I’m as good as Ginsberg – my god, can’t I just have fun! Anyway, I’m sure this is all sounding a bit ‘hipster’ like, but what can we do nowadays that isn’t a bit ‘something’? I warned you about the apostrophes. Anyway, in response to the hipster charge I quote the poem in question as Ginsberg writes – “I don’t feel good, don’t bother me.” So, if you fancy reading something written, in a happy state with good music on, here it is. Add your own Jazz to it, and if you’re going to read it, read it aloud in a Jewish, New York accent remembering that it’s a bit of fun. Thanks. 

All around the sound and fury of Older young people fill the air,

Committed to their phones like disciples in portable,

Scorned, mourned, praying, they’re lost for good now,

Old women cry and scream their hearts out, pray there isn’t another war,

‘This lot couldn’t fight an army of rats’,

We don’t wanna fight, that’s the cry back,

Let them in, let them all in, that’s what we say to them,

Dark rimmed professors with clinging fingers, weep a little because their classes are empty,

Philosophy and history, ethics and morals in books that are over-expensive,

Publishing syndicates, marketing geniuses,

Oh yes, have no doubt, they all scorn us,

Sold out, washed up, turned over – we’re in the bear market now,

It’s all over, that’s what they say, it’s al over,

Well if it’s over then let’s settle down and fight no more,

Read your books aloud, book clubs in tiny rooms, computer lounges the size of factories,

Don’t pray for us, he ain’t listening to us – he ain’t listening to you for us,

Tear up your manuals, we’re in a depression of discretion now,

‘Where’d the silences go?’, that’s what sad little men always said to me,

Existential, men in their existential cars, can mourn all they like

White men, White straight men and their cares,

Their cares don’t turn out to be cares of mine,

Whether petrol’s up, the tank is full,

Man I don’t even know how to drive – you think I care bout all that shit?

White feminists, black transgenders, meeting in Greenwich village or another pastiche somewhere,

Having an orgy of lust and acceptance,

Boy I don’t want to be on the outside any more,

I wanna be in Greenwich Village  – that’s where the fun people are,

That’s who they’ll write about,

Man, I wanna be written about,

The Branch

I wrote this when contemplating transition – the idea of relocating to an utterly alien place. I think we all try to get by as best we can, and transition, the ultimate test of strength, can be the moment when our performances become strained – the moment I have tried to write about, below, will hopefully resonate with most who read it.

 

If it was not for the sight of a robin, I would not have thought of home at all,

The frightened bird stumbling its way along the branch,

I have reason to take issue with this bird, for its home scrapes on my window at night,

Meaning I cannot sleep or take a moments rest from the hectic day by day,

I confess that there are nights, with many a drink inside me, that I swear at that branch,

Just loud enough so that my housemates can hear and they call back something funny, we laugh,

And the morning after, where my head throbs without pity, that branch is my greatest foe,

A deadline confounds me as the banging and swaying crashes forth onto my window of the world,

I have, on occasion, thrown open my window and reached out to that branch, gripping it with force,

It’s thin, it has no muscle, no bark to pad it out, only some protector in the form of the bird,

And I wrench it back and forth, hoping to dislodge it from its irritating height,

But no matter how strong my grip, it stays steady and firm, and after much battle I give in,

It was only this morning that I actually listened for the sound of the branch, ready to curse forth,

But it did not come and upon inspection I saw it lying on the pavement below, the wind doing a far better job than I,

I cheered, raising my arms high – shouting the good news,

‘My oppressor is dead! My window is clear!’ My housemates toasted it with cheap wine,

Only now, at night, I think of the robin and a vision comes to me searing in its clarity,

The back door of my home, my parents standing beside me – all of us gazing up to the stars, joking about their odd patterns,

And now, I cry, just softly enough so that my housemates cannot hear,

And I lie in bed, praying that another branch may keep me awake and obscure those funny stars from my dreams

Tests Of Psychopathy

I took a psychopath test the other day. Bad news. I’m not one. I really was hoping for a positive return on my profile. I say profile, in truth it was an internet test. But, I don’t know, it looked professional. The borders were high market, and that’s good enough for me. I judge all my doctors by their office furnishings.

I took a full personality test, hoping to find that I’d got something. Well, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s an excuse isn’t it. An excuse for oddities and embarrassing moments. I assure you that my nights would be more rested knowing that the time I began talking about the importance of parental care, in front of a self professed orphan, were down to some evil psychopath gene instead of social ineptitude. Sadly, no. I’m in fact normal on that front. I had, with undeniable smugness, put on the test that I could very easily manipulate people if I needed, and that I could use emotion to escape situations I didn’t like. I marked down that my empathetic tendencies wavered regularly and that my sympathy extended no further than an awareness of obligation. A wave of disappointment crept across my desperate mind as I read the results. Average. I’m average. Never such an ugly word could be uttered about one’s psyche. I’d much rather be damaged goods than a carefully packaged and preserved averagely normal product. In histrionic tendencies, I was mild. After looking up what the word meant, I agreed to some extent. Perhaps if I wasn’t so histrionic, my exclamation of parental importance would have been less noticeable. Perhaps even under my breath, in which case an awkward scenario would never have arisen.

I’m not OCD according to the test. This came as a surprise, because I do regularly check light switches, but it seems that OCD stretches further than just light awareness. I make sure taps are turned off, but I suppose that’s a habit of the money tight as well as the order bound. I’m not a sociopath either, which once more disappointed me because with both that and psychopathic tendencies struck from my medical notes, I can no longer pursue a career in business. That’s what they say isn’t it, that most CEO’s are psychopaths. In fact, I’m sure one or two are, and the myth has been spread by other CEO’s wanting to seem equally unhinged. I never want to work in business but like a career in football, it’s something I could always playfully flirt with. To follow the flirtation of business, now, would be like a legless man flirting with the idea of playing central midfield. The final personality disorder on the list, finally offered me the thing I had been looking for. RED ALERT it said (with histrionic tendencies, if I may say so as a mild sufferer). YOU ARE DANGEROUSLY HIGH IN THIS DISORDER, it continued. Now, a psychopath who may be high in his particular disorder, may well murder someone. I’m no expert, as you can discern from the sweeping statements, but I think a psychopath of the highest order, may well be the one I fear murder from the most. A dangerously high histrionic personality might live their whole life in performance and become maudlin at the drop of a hat. A sort of Arkadina of reality. They may take everything to heart and profess, camply, anything they wanted to profess.

I, however, am a HIGHLY observed, RED ALERT candidate for the disorder which can be found in most models, I’m sure – Narcissism. I’m a high alert narcissist. Now, this would be easier to stomach if I could admit to staring at myself in the mirror for prolonged periods. Instead, I spend a few minutes roughly molding my unshaped hair into something that looks as un wig-like as possible before entering the world. It seems, therefore, that my narcissism is rooted inwardly, with regard to how I think of myself and the people around me. Take for example, a question that I thought fairly simple – “Would the world be better run, if you were in charge?”. Now, the simple, unthinking answer would of course be – “Oh no, of course not. I couldn’t do it.” And I may well say that if ever asked in person, though the train of events which led to me being seriously asked if I could run the world, perhaps may never arise. But really, think about it – You could do it. You could run the world. I don’t mean democratically, I mean RUN THE WORLD. Maybe you couldn’t do the finances, I couldn’t either, but I could definitely run the world. Oh god, just writing it makes me realism how narcissistic it is, no wonder I’m HIGH ALERT. I’m starting to see it now. I think it comes down to this – If I were asked whether I was better than my peers – I would absolutely answer no. And that may be the English within me coming out (and actually I wish it would GET out). And surely the inward narcissist is better than the outward. Because, at least I hide my feeling of superiority, and never act on them. Which might be worst, actually. Oh god…

But why do people feel compelled, as I did, to discover an imperfection? It’s one of two things, either people enjoy telling stories about problems they have or we live in such a world of perfection seekers, that the rest of us want to define our sub-standard nature. I’d like to imagine in a solidarity driven hope that it’s the latter. But as the number of self-proclaimed autistics and dyslexics rise, I can only assume to be the former. Don’t assume that I’m saying dyslexia or autism don’t exist – I’m just suggesting that perhaps one should be professionally diagnosed with such a problem, before subscribing to its mailing list. Did you know that people actually go around now, saying they have Autism, without ever seeing a doctor? I mean, people actually do this, and others accept it! And the more disorders you have, the more interesting you might be at party. Could you imagine what a psychopathic Autistic individual would do to the party scene in Los Angeles? One as damaged as that could set buildings alight – both in atmosphere and literally, and get away with it as well. I went to school with someone that told me in confidence that he claimed he had dyslexia, only to lower the expectations of his work. That’s incredible, to me. In fact, isn’t that psychopathic? To manipulate a system as broadly derided as the education system, may not seem brilliant – but it shows us that people from the age of 13 – which we were at the time, know and understand the implications of disability and expectation. I don’t think it’s simply an attempt at an easy ride through life, however. I think it’s an inherent need to belong to a club, with people that are like minded, like able’d or now in fact like disabled. It’s an attempt to find meaning! We all do it, some more overt than others. I for example wouldn’t attend a comic convention – mainly because those people aren’t my people, but even if they were I would find myself strongly resisting it. To be seen in costume is a state I would like to reserve for perhaps moments before death, or in the midst of escaping a country. But some people flock to the conventions to find like-minded people. Some get married, some simply swap plastic molds of actors in costume themselves, and some get things autographed by “stars” who are so tenuously linked with stardom, that it is not unbelievable to see people literally worshiping the ground stepped on by celebrities in the future.

If I was however going through a crisis – let’s say a painful divorce, in which I lose the house, the car, the garden and even mutual friends. If I was left utterly alone, I may fake a sort of love for comics or celluloid reproductions, and then go to these conventions to feel a sort of kinship with others. And maybe if I was a psychopath, I would be able to meet up with psychopaths and say – “We’re both coping on this earth, with similar disorders, shall we discuss?” And we then would discuss, and for a few moments life would seem very real and present, and the irrelevancy of the earth and all that surrounds it would melt away, because we would connect. Well, that does sound nice. But I’m not a psychopath. And narcissists are awful to talk to. So I’m unconnected on the earth. So like the faux-autistic people that are out there, I still am on the lookout for a sub-culture to put myself in. But as I’m sure the psychopaths would find out during their meeting, I am of the realization that after those few moments of brief alignment and place subside, you are essentially talking to yourself. The same ideas come bouncing back, is all you’ll get in the proverbial conversational tennis match. Somebody needs to be hitting the ball back, in this scenario you’re playing doubles with no one on the other side. That’s how the Nazi’s took off, in fact, this is how all violent movements arise:. Like-minded people, angry that they’ve got no-one to play tennis with. I’m straying from the literal with that. A room of right wing thinkers is as dull as a room of left wing thinkers, and no room is more exciting than a room of right wing thinkers with one outspoken left wing thinker, and vice versa. Rap battles would be dull if each verse was about agreement. And yet we still search for brief conformation in life’s struggle and our way of going about it. Alan Bennett, in the History Boys, spoke truthfully when he talked about those moments in literature in which you absolutely connect with something you have read, which of course is paradoxical, because we all remember times we have done that – and in our agreement we are having such a moment at present. But the key to life seems to be struggle – struggle with weather, struggle with loneliness and the struggle to find like-minded people, before facing the struggle of getting rid of them. And that’s probably why a person might diagnose themselves with Dyslexia, because it’s a struggle, and humans like struggle, or at the very least, the recognition that they are struggling. But I’m just a narcissist, apparently struggling with the oppression of inner thoughts that are grandeur in nature and unpleasant in verse. Not very valiant, but perhaps, a public service.